


A Persian Lullaby

by imitateslife



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom - Susan Kay
Genre: Drabble, M/M, One Shot, POV First Person, Pharoga - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 20:04:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6768154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imitateslife/pseuds/imitateslife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik always protests that he hates the Daroga's voice, but try as he might, he can never forget the way Nadir Khan sang lullabies at his dying son's bedside. Erik/Nadir, non-explicit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Persian Lullaby

I always professed to hate the sound of the Daroga’s voice – especially in song. I cannot deny that it gave me satisfaction to see a man as proud and serious as Nadir get flustered when insulted. Sometimes, he would respond coolly, with a knowing half-smile and something like, “Not all of us can be as talented as you, Erik”. Others, he would say nothing, but his smile faltered and he seemed to be at a loss for words. He would burrow his hands into his pockets and fish for another topic to discuss. I relished those times and I was never wholly sure why, other than I liked making him feel as off-balance as he so often made me feel. I had little power over him insofar as I could see, but I could do this and it was something. I sometimes felt as if he was the only person alive immune to my voice. But today, when I teased that he had a singing voice that put a yowling tomcat to shame, he stopped walking along the bank of the lake with me and I was obliged to stop walking in order to see his face. His jade eyes were narrowed as he studied my masked visage, as if he could find answers there. I hated when he did that. He was always a detective – even in his retirement! Perhaps more now that he was retired than he had been in Persia. I waited for him to either give up – _unlikely_! – or to reach a conclusion.

I sometimes felt as if he was the only person alive who could see through my mask.

“You’ve never heard me sing,” he said. “I’ve made sure of that.”

“Have you?” I asked. “Have you really?”

Nadir fell silent and we stared at each other for a long and silent moment as I thought of the one time I had heard him sing. It had been so long ago… It’s funny, the moments that you remember decades later…

The night had been oppressively hot – unusual, I thought, by Mazenderan’s temperate standards. No one in the household moved with great purpose, but none seemed able to sleep. The lethargy in my bones could be attributed easily to the heat and humidity; it could have easily been the opium. But, surely, it must have been the weather, for unless Nadir’s entire household partook in the drug, there was no explaining away the listless agitation infecting every servant I passed in the halls. As I approached Reza’s door, Darius, who had been walking in the same direction, made a sudden and surprising sign for me to remain silent and out of the room. When he seemed satisfied that I would not disobey silent orders – as if I took orders from anyone! – he disappeared down the corridor. I stood alone in the hall and listened to a conversation unfolding in Reza’s bedroom.

“Are you certain you wouldn’t rather have Erik…?” Nadir’s voice asked.

“He doesn’t know the words,” Reza said. “Besides. I want you to do it. Papa, please-”

I peered through the crack of the door. The humidity had likely pushed it off its hinges just a bit… Just enough to see in. I watched as Nadir rested a hand upon the crown of Reza’s head. He then bent low and pressed his face against Reza's dark hair. For a moment, it looked as if Nadir was praying. Perhaps he was just relishing the feel, the smell, the sound of his son. This was not a moment I was meant to see. When the moment passed, Nadir’s voice rose into the air, low and soft like a woodwind. There was something unrefined about his voice, but entrancing in its passion and gentleness. I strained to hear. I had been in the country for a little more than a year and spoken its language for even longer, but I had never been familiar with its music – especially not its lullabies. No one had taught me and I had too much pride to seek a tutor.

_Goli az dast beraft o khar mande_  
_Be man jour o jafa besyar mande_  
_Be dastam mande tefle shirkhari_  
_Mara in yadegare yar mande_

It was a strange lullaby. One of grief and lost love and bitterness. Why Reza would request such a song was beyond my comprehension. But he wrapped his atrophied arms around his father’s neck and hugged him as tightly as his thin and frail frame could allow. Nadir sighed into the crook of Reza’s neck and for a moment, they seemed to be peaceful. I made my retreat clumsily – far more clumsily than I usually ever did. I should not have felt jealous of a dying boy… of a boy I cherished as much as I cherished Reza. And yet, when the rain finally came and released the house from its torpor, I too, poured out pent up sorrows. I had never had anyone sing me a lullaby… No none, that was, except for myself. How often had I sung myself to sleep? I longed most strangely to lay my head in the Daroga’s lap and feel his fingers card through my hair while his oboe voice sang to me of love or loss or even just the nonsense words that made up most lullabies. I longed to be held, to be loved, to be cherished. Instead, my lullaby that night was the distant rumble of thunder and rain pattering against the window panes. When I awoke, my mask was sticky and soaked with tears. A blanket I don’t remember grabbing had been draped over my shoulders and a pillow tucked under my head.

Now, two decades later, Nadir and I stood staring at one another on the banks of my lake. He seemed to await an answer to a question he never asked: When had I heard him sing? Determined not to tell him, I looked away. His hand cupped my cheek and turned my head so that I might look at him. He did not often touch me – certainly not after I insulted him so! – but he did now and I realized that in not telling him the truth, I had become quite transparent. Whether he knew the exact instance I had first heard him sing – or if he knew of the other times I lurked outside Reza’s bedroom in search of the solace his singing could bring me – I could not say. But he knew. He knew when and where and what I had heard him sing. I took firm hold of his wrist and cast his hands aside.

“It is getting late, Daroga,” I told him. “Darius will worry about you.”

“And I will worry about you,” he said. “Erik-"

“Go, Nadir,” I commanded. “It was a mistake to have this conversation with you tonight.”

He retreated with some hesitation and I, likewise, rowed back to my house across the lake. But once there, once seated alone in my funereal bedroom, surrounded by musical instruments and the endlessly repeating notes of the Dies Irae, I wanted nothing more than to be held and to hear the gentle and unrefined sounds of a Persian lullaby against the savagery of a thunderstorm.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The lullaby Nadir sings is called “A Flower Was Lost”. It translates to: 
> 
> A flower was lost and the thorn remained  
> A lot of oppression remained for me  
> A baby remained for me  
> This is my mate’s memorial. 
> 
> … It was very hard to find a Persian lullaby (with a translation!) that could be sung by a father to his child, since many of the ones I’ve found specifically reference the child’s father being gone, returning, or doing something other than singing the lullaby. Oh well. Some day, I’ll learn Persian and be able to write better drabbles.
> 
> The original version of this drabble/one-shot can be found on my Erik roleplay account: masterofmirrors.


End file.
